


to our minor love

by ihadthisdream0nce



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Artist Harry, Barista Liam, Ed is the world's best manager, Finger Painting, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Minor Character Death, Waiter Niall, harry is basically van gogh, orphaned louis, shameless art history references, wax poetic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2014-01-04
Packaged: 2018-01-07 04:33:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1115558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ihadthisdream0nce/pseuds/ihadthisdream0nce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Harry is a famous finger-painting Post-Impressionist and Louis is a reclusive coffee shop owner.</p><p>Or</p><p>When the world is turned inside-out and Louis can cook without burning anything and Ed Sheeran literally saves Harry's love life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. a craft with paint and powder

Harry Styles never works at home.

 

At the age of twenty, he has sold over thirty individual pieces to art galleries in Vienna, Paris, Los Angeles, New York, and Madrid. He's received offers from the Tate Modern, MUMOK, and MOMA to host exhibits of a completed series alongside the works of his inspirations: Van Gogh, Monet, and Munch -  but not once has he created a piece in his own flat.

 

Instead, every morning for the last two years since he moved to London, he has chosen to pack up his supplies and venture down the road to a hole-in-the-wall coffee shop turned diner.

 

Five days a week, he abandons the natural light of his too-big, sparsely furnished apartment and embraces the dusty basement atmosphere of the café where the tables are covered in thick brown drawing paper instead of table cloths and condiment racks are filled with crayons and markers and colored pencils instead of salt and pepper shakers and brown sauce. He doesn't think he needs a state of the art studio. To him, he hasn't had people pay to see his work. To him, Harry Styles is still as wide-eyed and idealistic as he was in year nine when he saw Van Gogh's _Starry Night Over the Rhone_ on a weekend school trip to Paris and passionately declared that he wanted to be an artist when he grew up.

 

He believes that the magic of the quaint café has kept him from feeling the pressure of his skyrocketing fame, kept him inspired and just plain _interested_ enough in his art to keep the flame of his creativity from burning out. He lives and breathes to see the old papers on the wall to change every day, commemorating their past visitors and the gift of a doodle of a cat or a small poem about a beautiful girl in the booth to the right that they had left in their wake.

 

He loves how he's become a regular, how the staff has his usual booth in the far back corner ready for him as soon as they open in the mornings, four layers of thick drawing paper laying in wait. He loves how they set a fresh cup of coffee on the top of the booth chair, rather than on the table, to avoid ruining whatever piece he's working on as soon as they see his mug has been emptied. He's thankful that they don't even blink when he overpays for his coffee, praying that it covers the cost of the materials he's used, and carries the brown papers out the door as the waitresses and busboys start to close up.

 

So, when he arrived at eight o'clock with his iPod and paints packed away in his tote and a clear vision of the works he wanted to complete in the time between open and close, only to find the lights off and the door mysteriously unlocked when he jiggles the handle, he couldn't help but be confused. Curious, he turned the door handle and entered the darkened establishment.

 

Carefully, he felt around for the bannister of the stairwell that led down to the main café, losing all confidence that he had the floor plan memorized. Finally, his foot touched hard ground and he let out a shaky breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

 

"Hello?" Harry called out into the abyss. He made his way towards the dim emergency light over the till. "Is anyone in here?"

 

"We're closed" A strained voice called out. The curly haired lad felt around for the counter, bending himself over it to reach the  main light switch he knew was hidden there.

 

"But you're in here, so you're obviously not." He replied, crying out in joy as he flipped the switch and the café was illuminated at last.

 

"I don't come in here" The voice said, soft, broken words coming from somewhere to Harry's left. He peered behind the counter and found a man, a boy really, maybe a few years older than himself, sitting on the floor by the industrial sized coffee machine. From that angle, all he could see was a head of wispy, caramel hair peeking out from what looked to be an oversized forest green sweater.

 

"Then why're you in here?" He asked, climbing awkwardly over the counter and lowering himself down next to the mysterious individual.

 

"It's just for today, I'll be back in a year" The reply was dull and muffled into the boy's knees.

 

"Where are you going?" Harry asked quietly, indulging the other. He was quite obviously unarmed and it was way too early in the morning for a robber to be out and about. Assuming he was safe, it wasn't like he had anything better to be doing.

 

"Nowhere" He replied lifelessly. Harry determined he was either tired, hungover, or extremely upset. "Why are you here?"

 

"Why are you?" The curly haired boy retorted dryly. _Who did this boy think he was?_

 

"I own this place, Johanna's" _That's who_ , Harry laughed to himself. Liam, the young man that usually worked the till, had told him about the somewhat reclusive owner of the coffee shop the third time that he had come in. He had asked if he could speak with the owner, hoping that he could apologize for using so much of their supplies and taking up valuable seating space. Liam had outright laughed, a bright smile gracing his puppy-like features. ' _Look, Harry, Lou doesn't come in here. He knows about you though. Don't worry'_ he had said, taking Harry's used mug and shooing him out the door so he could close for the evening.

 

"You're Lou?" _So this is the enigmatic owner, the one who doesn't come in to his own shop_. The artist pondered, keeping his thoughts to himself.

 

"Louis. Yeah." The caramel haired boy corrected, bringing his head up from his knees and looking directly at Harry. "Who're you?"

 

"Harry" He replied breathlessly, caught off guard by the startling blue of Louis' eyes. He yearned to pull his paints out of his bag, to start mixing colors in the palm of his hand until he could make the perfect shade. He wanted to paint the walls with it, the streets even. He wanted to drown himself in it. His fingers twitched expectantly

 

"Why are you here?" Louis demanded, blue eyes freezing over.

 

"To make those." Harry pointed to one of his discarded pieces tacked carefully to the wall, a behemoth that had taken several hours and irked him to no end because he knew that wasn't the way he wanted the meteor's tail to look, he couldn't get the  paint to spin just so. His usual waiter, Niall, the amicable blonde with a boisterous laugh and a crooked, yet endearing, smile had asked to keep it as he moved angrily towards the bin, muscles pulled taught in exasperated frustration.

 

"You're him?" Louis' demeanor thawed, leaving nothing but a defeated boy in a too-large sweater in its wake.

 

"Who?" The curly haired artist was surprised. Did Louis know who he was? Was he an art fan?

 

"Cezanne. They call you that, the people that work here." Harry smiled, delighted that his work had been likened to that of an esteemed Post-Impressionist, yet still somewhat pleased that his exact identity had remained unknown.

 

"Is my hairline receding that much?" he quipped, laughing airily.

 

"No," Louis laughed, joining in with the banter for a moment before letting his seriousness return. "But you have his curls and you paint like him." He explained plainly.

 

"Oh." Harry was a bit lost for words. "Thanks?"

 

"Yeah." The blue eyed boy sighed, resting his head against his knees again.

 

"Why are you closed today?" Harry asked, unsure. It wasn't a bank holiday and the shop was normally open on Mondays.

 

"I just needed the place to myself today" Louis breathed, voice shaky and strained.

 

"But you don't come in here…?" The twenty year old wondered aloud, recalling his conversation with Liam.

 

"No." He said with a sense of finality, leaving no room for further discussion.

 

"Do you want me to leave you?" Harry got the feeling that he was intruding on something, but he couldn't quite place it. He could leave Louis alone, despite how drawn he was to the other boy. He didn't want to upset any potential friendship that could arise from their unconventional first encounter.

 

"Yes." Harry moved to stand, gathering his painting supplies and adjusting his tote strap across his chest. He didn't have to paint today, and it was obvious that Louis didn't want him there anyway. After all, he didn't even know Harry, just of him. He would just phone Ed and tell him that he needed a week's extension on the last two pieces he needed before his collection was ready to submit to a gallery. "Wait."

 

"What?" He stopped, unsteady on his feet. He gripped the counter for support and waited for Louis' reply. _Please let me stay,_ he thought to himself. _I want to be your everything._

 

"Please," Louis sobbed, silent tears falling down his bronzed cheeks. "Stay"

 

"Okay." Harry breathed, lowering himself down next to Louis again and crowding into his space for support. Without his consent, a heavy weight settled in his chest. 

 

Harry was content just to be in the boy's presence as they sat quietly.

 

"It's my fault" The blue eyed boy broke down, sobbing softly. "Everything." He tugged at his sweater, cable knit stretching over the tattoos on his forearm: a crown, a four leaf clover, a daisy, a moon, and a jaybird inked permanently into his bronzed skin. Harry wondered, fleetingly, what they meant before reached out his hand, palm up in the hope that his newfound companion would find comfort. Louis responded by lacing their fingers together and squeezing as hard as he could.

 

"They're gone." He choked out, "They're dead and it's all my fault."

 

"Oh, Lou." Harry brought their joined hands up from where they rested upon the floor, kissing the back of Louis' hand softly.

 

"Everything I do is for them but they're not even here to see it." Louis cried. The curly haired boy hated seeing people like this, but he couldn't help but think that even as he was breaking in front of him, Louis looked absolutely stunning.

 

"I'm sorry." It was in that moment that Harry realized he wanted to dip his fingers in the constellations and bring them down across Louis' cheek bones, map the universe on his eyelids, and swim in the fabric of time with him until they were tangled up in forever.

 

"Zayn and I built this from nothing." The other boy professed, moving slightly so that he could be closer to the source of his comfort. "It was just a moldy basement space below the Knights of St. Columba building when we bought it." There seemed to have been a pause in Louis' tears, so Harry took it as an opportunity to pull Louis into his lap, bringing them chest to back.  He snaked his arms around the other boy's thin waist and wrapped him in a warm embrace.

 

"The twins would never settle down long enough for us to go out to eat as a family, too many unruly children weren't conducive to public outings. Lottie and I would save the brown packing paper that would come in the mail and use it to cover the booth tables at the little restaurant in our home town. Whenever we went out, we'd bring some crayons along as well and the they would be too busy drawing horses and rainbows and butterflies to act out." The chestnut haired boy's voice had lowered to just above a whisper, a sound so soft and delicate that Harry had to strain to hear it. Louis, wrapped snugly in Harry's arms, was nothing more than a shell: empty and broken.

 

"Louis it's not your fault." Harry declared vehemently, pulling Louis closer to him and tucking his head in the space between his shoulder and neck.

 

"It is." Louis replied robotically, resigned and unwavering in his belief.

 

"Its not like you killed them!" The curly haired boy cried. _How could someone so beautiful, so wonderful, bare such a burden on his shoulders?_ He thought to himself. _Why?_

 

"You don't know that." Louis refuted stonily.

 

"I may not know you, but I know you're not a killer." Harry said, vowing that he'd do whatever it took to make sure that Louis realized what a wonderful person he was. He promised himself that he'd get to know the boy and prove him wrong, make him see that he held the cosmos in his eyes and the entire universe at his fingertips, that he was beautiful.

 

"I might as well be, I left them to die." Louis bit out, tugging away from Harry's arms. "I wasn't even with them when it happened." And with that, his tears had returned.

 

"If you weren't even there, how could you have killed them?" Harry had not a doubt in his mind that Louis had nothing to do with the death of his family. He chalked it up to the fact that what happened was most likely an accident, and Louis was blaming himself because he wasn't there when it happened.

 

"I wasn't there to protect them when they needed me." Louis sobbed, and Harry's suspicions were confirmed. He pulled Louis into his chest and whispered ' _It's okay, it's going to be alright_ ' into the smaller boy's shoulder until his sobs subsided and the sun set over their heads.

 


	2. for naïve larks who starve and grieve

Harry returned to his too-big flat later that evening, his mobile phone burning a hole in his pocket. He had Louis' number, he had Louis' promise to meet up again, on a day when he wasn't so teary eyed and mourning.

 

Standing in the hallway of his apartment complex, dimly lit by yellowing fluorescent lights, Harry grabbed the door handle to hold it steady as he went to turn the key. Surprisingly, he found the door suspiciously open. Recognizing the deja-vu, he slowly made his way inside the apartment flipping light switches on as he stepped silently with cautious feet.

 

"Let me see them," a voice called from the living area. Harry let out a sigh; it was only Ed.

 

"They were closed, family emergency." Harry dutifully explained to his best friend, turned manager and legal consultant. Cracking his shoulders to release the building tension form the day, the curly haired boy sat himself on the couch next to his friend.

 

"Did you find somewhere else then?" Ed asked, wondering where his friend had gone off to if his regular haunt was closed. Harry wasn't known for disappearing acts, nor was he one to not complete at least one piece a day.

 

"Ed, you know I can't just go somewhere else," Harry sighed, relaxing into the plush leather and letting it envelop him. He wasn't really one for spending money, choosing instead to squirrel away the majority of his earnings in a savings account in case of an emergency. Once in a while, he was willing to splurge on things like comfort and food.

 

"Then where were you?" Ed dropped the manager façade and quickly slipped into the role of best friend. Some days, it was hard to be both. His personal concern for Harry's well-being would always be at the forefront of every decision made about his career or otherwise.

 

"I met someone." Harry breathed out, voice no louder than a whisper. He knew what Ed was going to say, the disapproval was already showing on his face. He couldn't help it, though. Louis had made such an impression. Harry wanted to drown himself in the caramel haired boy's striking blue eyes and paint entire collections with nothing but the sunset bronze color of his skin.

 

"Oh, no." Fuck, Ed thought to himself, before voicing his exact thoughts on the subject, "Not this again." And then, "Remember last time?"

 

"Stop," Harry cried, all other words of protest in his throat before he could make a valid argument. "It's not like that." He denied feebly.

 

"Are you going to go through another five month dry spell?" Ed sighed, remembering the time the two of them, along with the rest of the art world, deemed The Dark Ages of Harry's career. "We can't afford another one of those." He explained, hoping that it would scare Harry off of putting his heart on the line for some random stranger he met at a café. "Especially with this deadline over our heads."

 

"I know." Harry cried, arms flailing with a sense of urgency. Ed had to understand, he knew the gravity of the situation, and he wasn't intentionally trying to derail his entire life. "The Museum Moderner Kunst,” he offered awkwardly in a pathetic attempt at German, “needs them soon. I promise you'll have all twelve pieces ready for the installation by the end of the year." Harry vowed.

 

"Mate, it's May. I know how you work. You churn out four pieces a day and maybe make one you will actually like every other month." Ed smiled to himself; he had no doubt in his mind that Harry would get the pieces done on time. He just didn't want to see him get hurt in the process. "Perfectionist bastard," He teased fondly.

 

"I only need two more." Harry explained, smiling at Ed's jab. "Worst case scenario, you pick the last two from the drafts. No one will know they're not perfect but us." He had completed hundreds of pieces over the last few months, ruling the majority of out them for his collection simply because he didn't think they were good enough. Fortunately, Harry could never stomach throwing a single piece away, so he kept them all.

 

"I know mate, but this needs to make you happy." Ed would never let his friend sacrifice his happiness and pride in his work for a deadline. "There's no point otherwise." He reiterated, "You don't paint for anyone but yourself."

 

"I know, but I don't want my mum to feel like she's wasted her time on me if I don't meet this deadline." And the truth came out. Ed knew that Harry had never really been on the most fantastic of terms with his family, most of all his own mother, but there was no denying the fact that they were a very loving group of people.

 

"Harry, you know she will never feel that way." He pleaded, trying in vain to convince the young artist that despite the state of their current relationship, Harry's mother would always be proud of him and love him no matter what.

 

"But," Harry protested, making to stand from where he was sitting on the couch and let out some pent up frustration.

 

"Stop." Ed commanded, pulling out the manager voice in hopes that Harry would get this message; if anything at all, Ed wanted this to get through his thick head of curly hair. The younger boy sat back down, deflated. "She may have worked hard to send you to America and put you through the Rhode Island School of Design and help you got your certifications early because you're a fucking child prodigy, Van Gogh's second coming, according to the MUMOK, who want to rent your pieces for an installation, might I add, but never, ever claim that she feels anything but proud of everything you've accomplished. Even after what happened."

 

"Okay." Harry breathed out, taking Ed's words and holding them in his mind. Accepting them, however, was a completely different story.

 

"Okay?" Ed inquired, checking to make sure he had heard right. Harry was not one to give up an argument easily.

 

"Yeah." Harry confirmed, hoping that his blind acceptance would push the conversation into the closet for a long while.

 

"Now, can you show me what pieces you were thinking about for the show?" Ed's smile was contagious, and soon Harry was beaming as well.

 

"Sure," The curly haired lad laughed, getting up from where he had been sitting on the couch and moving into the hallway. "Let me go get my portfolios."

 

"Portfolios?" Ed wondered, knowing that they were mostly used for the transportation of works, rather than the storage of them.

 

"I mean, yeah. Unless you want to come back into the storage room?" Harry called from the depths of the large flat, voice unsteady and laced with mild confusion.

 

"You have a storage room, but no room for a studio?" Ed stated incredulously. He knew why Harry didn't like working in studios, but hadn't realized the boy hadn't outfitted one in his own home, just in case.

 

"The storage room is where the studio would've been, had things be different." Harry replied, laughing airily in spite of himself. "You've been here loads of times! I've lived here for two years! Hell, you've spent the night on my couch often enough, you lazy bum! How could you not have noticed it?" He teased.

 

"I'll have you know I'm not lazy! I'm just too mobile to commit to purchasing a flat." Ed refuted, defending his own erratic living habits.

 

"So you stay on my couch instead. Completely logical solution, you've got there." Harry taunted, smiling genuinely.

 

"Be quiet and show me what you've been working on." Ed attempted to be stern, breaking the façade when Harry returned and fixed him with a scornful stare.

 

"Here's the last month's worth. Though, the majority of the ones in here are being considered for the collection or I've already decided are going to be a part of it." Harry placed a plastic portfolio case that was bursting at the zipper with completed pieces on the coffee table and sat down again.

 

"All this in a month?" Ed questioned aloud, completely dumbfounded by the amount of finished works that had accumulated and passed Harry's criteria for perfection. "You're a wizard, Harry!" He cried out.

 

"Shut up, Ronald." Harry tossed back, his failed attempt at an angry expression crumbing with the easy banter that passed between them.

 

"Are these all oils?" Ed flipped through them carefully, pausing to get a better look at a few that had caught his eye.

 

"Not all of them." Harry has never been picky with his mediums: he works in pastels and charcoals and oils and ink. When he paints, he forgoes the paint brushes, yearning to be in direct contact with the art he's making, to leave a little piece of himself, whether it be a few skin cells immortalized in the paint or his soul preserved on a canvas for the world to see. Harry's work has always been distinctly his.

 

"They're beautiful." Ed praised. He pulled out one at random, absolutely delighted to see the familiar mixing of paints in a way that was uniquely Harry's style forming into a masterpiece.

 

"Thanks." Harry tucked his head against Ed's shoulder to hide his blush. Praise had always made him slightly uncomfortable, and more often than not, embarrassed.

 

"Now tell me about this someone." Ed teased, hoping that playful interest would mask his apparent concerns for Harry's well being.

 

"His name is Louis," Harry was positively glowing. He was completely enamored with the boy he had met only a few hours prior. His head was swimming with images of Louis pulling his evergreen sweater over his hands, the way that the ink sat so casually on his skin almost as if he was born with this tattoos.

 

"Louis? How'd you meet?" Ed pondered, wondering where the young artist had gotten off to today if he hadn't been in the café painting.

 

"At Johanna's." Harry replied, eyes holding much more happiness than Ed had witnessed in a long time.

 

"I thought there was a family emergency?" Had Harry lied? Ed wondered, knowing his best friend would tell him everything.

 

"Yeah," Harry replied honestly, happiness unwavering. "Him"

 

"Him?"

 

"He owns it." Harry said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. His tone shifted, "Anniversary of his family's death. He opened it for them"

 

"Oh, Harry." Ed sighed. Harry wasn't ready for this, to jump into a relationship with a boy who'd lost his family, who'd lost everything. Not so soon after Nick.

 

"Ed," Harry's entire expression lit up, "They're magic." He breathed, smiling brightly. "He's the magic."

 

"Harry, I know that shop is special to you-" Ed began, but was abruptly cut off.

 

"It's everything." Harry argued,  "Where everything has happened." He hadn't told Ed that he stumbled in there at half past eight after walking around all night, eyes puffy with tears and sadness because of an unplanned call from his ex. The staff had sat him down in what was now his booth, brought him a steaming cup of coffee, and shoved a bunch of broken crayons his way with the words 'Cheer up, mate. Everyone gets down. Nothing a bit of doodling can't fix' falling from their lips.

 

"I know," Ed placated, "But don't let Louis take that away from you."

 

"He's not Nick." Harry denied, defending his new friend.

 

"I know," The ginger sighed, "But I know you, too." Ed knew that Harry fell hard and fast for people, putting his heart on the line immediately and doing everything he possibly could to please everyone around him.

 

"I'll be alright." Harry spoke emotionlessly, reserved. "The pieces will get done."

 

"I'm not worried about the damn pieces, I'm worried about my best mate." Ed argued, he hated seeing Harry go stony and silent simply because he wanted a topic dropped.

 

"I'm sorry." He wasn't.

 

"Don't you remember last time? I found you in the studio in a pool of your own blood." Ed tried as hard as he could to explain, but he knew there was no way Harry could understand just how horrific it was to come over and find his 18-year old best friend half-dead, sitting in a puddle of blood in his home studio. He looked up at the curly haired boy, eyes pleading.

 

"I'm not made of porcelain!" Harry denied, words barbed and filled with frustration.

 

"Yes, you are!" Ed didn't know when his eyes had started watering, but his face was wet with tears at the thought of losing not only a colleague, but also his best friend.

 

"Fuck, Ed!" Harry screamed, standing up. "No matter how many fucking parallels they draw between me and Van Gogh, I'm not going to put a revolver to my chest every time someone breaks up with me!"

 

"Harry-" Harry paints the world as he sees it and Ed knows this. Harry paints in massive, chaotic swirls of cold blue blacks, sterile whites, and violent, angry reds. Ed knows that things like this are never as black and white as they may seem.

 

"No! Don't try and convince me otherwise. However much they try and play it off as being about the way I paint, I know they're talking about what happened." And with that, Harry vacated his too-big flat once more, door slamming with a sense of finality as he walked off into the night.


End file.
